<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Friend of the Devil by ThePenultimateAvenger</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968187">Friend of the Devil</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePenultimateAvenger/pseuds/ThePenultimateAvenger'>ThePenultimateAvenger</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Reservoir Dogs (1992)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Swearing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:55:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,390</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968187</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePenultimateAvenger/pseuds/ThePenultimateAvenger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddy Newandyke is a smartass who makes a living as a petty thief/common criminal. He's on the LAPD's radar. Larry Dimmick is a new cop on the scene.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>137</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Freddy Newandyke.</p><p>Twenty seven.</p><p>Con artist, occasional thief; currently sitting behind a stainless steel table in an interrogation room because of a liquor store robbery that he was <em>definitely</em> involved in, not that he plans on admitting to anything.</p><p>It's mercilessly cold and he can imagine Ferchetti gettin' a real good kick out of his discomfort on the other side of that mirror, the fucking asshole. The guy's had it out for him since day one and it makes it pretty damn hard for Freddy to make a living. It seems like every other week he's dragged in for some bullshit reason, as though there aren't worse criminals in the city they could be focusing on instead. But no, it’s a pride thing for Ferchetti. Who gives a shit about murderers and rapists when there’s a shit-talking petty thief to rough up, right?</p><p>He flexes his fingers restlessly, tapping out a nervous beat against the table, wishing he had a cigarette to calm his jitters. The ashtray in the center of the table does nothing to ease the craving and the minutes seem to crawl by at a snail’s pace. It feels like a fuckin’ eternity before the door finally clangs open and although he jumps at the sudden noise, his hackles rise almost instantly.</p><p>Only...after a moment he feels himself deflate a little. This guy's not Ferchetti.</p><p>Freddy doesn't recognize the cop at all, which is sayin' something because he's been in here more than a few times by now, he’s practically on a first name basis with some of these guys. But he would know if he’d seen <em>this</em> guy before. This guy’s <em>hot</em>. A few strands of dark hair fall in front of the man’s face as his eyes scan over what’s undoubtedly Freddy’s file, the sleeves of his crisp white button-up shirt rolled up to his elbows. There’s a gun tucked into a black leather shoulder holster and the outline of a pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket. “How you doin' kiddo?”</p><p>Freddy’s not about to let his guard down. “Is that a rhetorical question?”</p><p>The cop chuckles and tucks the file folder under his arm, swinging the empty chair around to take a seat opposite Freddy. “You mind if I smoke?” He asks, setting the folder on the table and leaning his elbows on either side of it before reaching for the pack of cigarettes. Freddy shrugs but the nicotine withdrawal makes his lungs ache, his eyes following the cigarette that gets tapped far enough out for the cop to wrap his lips around it. The look of longing is apparently more obvious than he intended because the pack is held out to him. “You smoke?”</p><p>Freddy grits his teeth and eyes the cigarettes skeptically, almost certain that this guy’s just fucking him around. He reaches out with uncertain fingers, expecting the pack to be snatched away at the last moment, but the cop just waits for him to pull out a smoke before tucking the pack back into his pocket and pulling out a lighter.</p><p>“So,” The cop begins, snapping his fingers against the wheel of the lighter to ignite it. He lights his own cigarette and lets out a puff of smoke from the corner of his mouth, then holds the flame out to Freddy. “I’ve been readin’ your file here and it says you’ve been in here quite a few times.”</p><p>The lighter is snapped shut with a metallic click as the first pull of smoke hits Freddy’s lungs and he can’t help but roll his eyes. “What can I say? Nothin’ quite like a nice, comfortable interrogation room to make a guy feel right at home.” He bites sarcastically. He’s not about to change his attitude just because this guy had shown him a little bit of decency. He’s still a cop, and Freddy fuckin’ hates cops. They’re all the same. “Fuck outta here with that <em>gettin’ to know you</em> shit. I get it, you’re new around here, you probably wanna get a feel for the day-to-day, right? Don’t fuckin’ waste your time.”</p><p>The cop looks momentarily taken aback, raising an eyebrow. “You may be right about me bein’ new, but don’t think I ain’t dealt with guys like you before, buddy boy.”</p><p>Freddy licks his lips and lets out a bitter laugh, leaning forward to ash his cigarette into the ashtray. His hair falls into his face as he moves and he wonders why Ferchetti hasn’t come in to take a few swings at him by now, it’s gotta be a new record. “I don’t think there’s a cop out there that don’t know how to deal with <em>guys like me</em>.” He says, blowing an easy smoke ring in the cop’s direction. “But listen, I got shit to do so can we move this along a bit? Say your threats, throw your punches, just fuckin’ get on with it, man.”</p><p>The cop frowns and sits up a little straighter, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. “That how this usually goes?”</p><p>“Don’t look so fuckin’ surprised. Or what, you ain’t been a cop long enough to learn your intimidation tactics?”</p><p>“Christ, kid, I'm no fuckin’ rookie—and I ain’t no saint either, I ain’t claimin’ to be—but the guys we usually rough up are real scumbags, and you're in here on what? Petty theft? Vandalism? Unless there's somethin' your file ain't tellin' me, like a fuckin' history of murder for instance, there ain't no justification for some son of a bitch layin' a finger on you.”</p><p>Freddy grits his teeth because this guy is really throwing him for a loop here, he’s not acting like the cops Freddy’s used to dealing with. “Yeah, well. If you stick around a few weeks I’m sure you’ll figure out how it works around here.” He says coldly, wondering just how long it’ll take for this guy to fall into step with Ferchetti and the rest of them. “So, you gonna question me or just keep me here all night?” He asks impatiently.</p><p>“Well, I <em>was</em> planning on tellin’ you that you're free to go, but it looks like you’ve got your heart set on some confrontation. Now, I could book you right now for robbing that liquor store—I submitted the security tape to evidence myself—or I could see to it that this little piece of evidence gets misplaced and let you get on home. Which do ya want?” The cop asks with a hard look and a serious voice.</p><p>Freddy narrows his eyes, suspicions confirmed. This guy’s just like the rest of 'em. “What do I have to do? Y'know, if I wanna choose the second option?”</p><p>The cop stares at him, long and hard with his cigarette burning away between his lips. The weight of his gaze makes Freddy's skin feel uncomfortably hot and he’s beginning to brainstorm who he could possibly call to bail his ass out of jail when the cop finally opens his mouth to speak, posture relaxing. “I ain’t gonna make you do shit, kiddo. I might ask you to take care of the security footage next time so maybe you won’t find yourself in this predicament next time, maybe suggest hiding your face a bit better. I get the feelin’ I sure as hell can’t ask you to keep your ass outta trouble.”</p><p>Freddy’s not sure he believes the words. There’s always a catch, always something the cops want in exchange for their mercy whether it’s a punching bag or a quick way to get their rocks off, he finds it hard to believe they’ll just let him walk outta here without a hassle. But maybe...maybe this brown-eyed new guy is different. Maybe he really is as upright as a cop can get. Freddy kinda likes him, not that he’d ever admit to such a thing. “Looks like you got my number, Officer…?”</p><p>“Dimmick.”</p><p>“Well, Officer Dimmick, my ass has trouble written all over it.” Freddy follows the words with a cocky smile and a drifting cloud of smoke, trying to get a better read on what the fuck this guy’s deal is. He wants to push Dimmick’s buttons and find out if the whole good cop routine is a farce or not but he also wants to go home and get drunk off his ass, so maybe he’ll leave that for next time. Because obviously, there <em>will</em> be a next time. His cigarette is burning down to the filter, the heat from the cherry beginning to lick at his fingers, and he fixes Dimmick with a look as he crushes the cigarette into the ashtray. “But what the hell. I guess I could try to avoid trouble for a while, just for you. Y’know, ‘cause that second option seems like such a sweet deal and all.”</p><p>Dimmick smiles and follows Freddy's cigarette with his own. “See, I knew you seemed like a reasonable kid. Now, I don’t wanna see you in here again.”</p><p>“Good fuckin’ luck with that.” Freddy says with a chuckle. “I could be on my best behavior, like I was a fuckin’ altar boy, and Ferchetti would still find a reason to bring me in. But don’t worry, I’ll be smarter about my jobs. Though...can’t say I’d be too disappointed in seein’ you again, even if it was from across this table.” He gets to his feet and saunters slowly around the table until he’s right beside Dimmick, leaning a casual hip against the steel edge. He tucks his hair behind his ear with a tilt of his head and lets his eyes wander from the guy’s face to the cigarettes peeking out of his shirt pocket. “Mind if I bum a smoke for the road?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know. I think that one might cost ya.” Dimmick teases quietly, hand already reaching for the pack.</p><p>Freddy doesn’t know what possesses him to do it but he stops the movement with a hand on Dimmick’s wrist, fingers gentle as he uses his other hand to reach to the cigarettes himself. He realizes belatedly, as he’s already moving, that he’s at a physical advantage—standing while Dimmick’s still straddling the chair, on the same side as the man’s gun—and any other cop would already be acquainting his face with the floor.</p><p>But Dimmick doesn’t stop him, and tries not to think about it as his hands make a hasty retreat. If it had been any other goddamn cop in this building, his wrists would have been slapped into handcuffs faster than he could blink and he’d be facing a charge of attempted assault of an officer or some bullshit like that, but this guy just watches him carefully. Maybe he really is cut from a different cloth than all the other cops Freddy's known.</p><p>He pulls a cigarette out of the pack—Chesterfields, he notices now—and balances it loosely between his lips. He considers just setting the pack on the table instead of trying another risky maneuver but impulse gets the better of him and he slips the smokes back into the officer’s pocket anyway, his movements much slower this time around. “Can I get a light?” He asks softly.</p><p>Dimmick smirks and gets to his feet, leaning closer for only a moment as he swings his leg over the chair. “Now you remember, kid, I can’t go around making evidence disappear all the fuckin’ time. Consider this a one time thing, alright?” He says with a serious look, pulling out his lighter and sparking it before holding it out.</p><p>Freddy leans forward to light his cigarette, steadying Dimmick’s hand with fingers at his wrist. “So what I’m hearin’ is, <em>leave no evidence for Officer Dimmick to deal with</em>. Gotcha.” He says with a click of his teeth.</p><p>Dimmick looks like he wants to argue the point but seems to think better of it, turning instead to the door. “Come on, let’s get you outta here.”</p><p> </p><p>For the first time, Freddy leaves the station without blood in his mouth and an ache in his head. It feels almost foreign. He’s crossed paths with a decent number of cops over the years but he’s never met one like Dimmick, he can’t put his finger on it but the guy leaves him feeling a little off balance. Not that it matters, though—Dimmick will either become just like every other cop on the force or he’ll turn tail and run for the fuckin’ hills, it’s just a matter of time.</p><p>Freddy shakes his head and decides that he’s not going to think about anything except for the pack of cigarettes he’s going to buy at the nearest gas station and the 40 of Olde English he’s gonna crack open once he gets home. He’s gone long enough without concerning himself with the affairs of pigs, and he’s not about to start now.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Freddy gets picked up, beaten up, and driven home.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>uhhhh content warnings for violence and a bit of skeevy sexual suggestions? i guess?</p><p>a lot of this was written on the notes app when I was drunk lmao</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Freddy makes it almost two weeks without getting picked up by the cops.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know why the cops were called or who called ‘em, but one moment he’s buying weed off a guy at a shitty little house party and the next he’s sitting in the back seat of a police cruiser with his hands cuffed behind his back, wrists beginning to ache. He finds it kinda funny how he’s sitting here but the guy who <em>sold</em> him the weed got to walk, and by <em>funny</em> he means that it’s a heaping pile of bullshit, but enough of the cops probably know his face by now that they probably figure him for a real troublemaker.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks, if he reminisces real hard, that he can still remember a time in his life when he believed he could actually amount to anything. He’d had dreams at one point. Aspirations. All the shit that made waking up in the world a little but easier to stomach, but as hard as he thinks he can’t quite pin down when he lost that spark. His life boils down to a never ending film reel of bad decisions peppered with cheap booze and strange faces; black eyes, busted lips, back seats of cop cars with the familiar metallic bite of handcuffs around his wrists. This is all there is. This is the cycle he always finds himself in, and he’s past the point of caring if this is all there will ever be.</p><p> </p><p>He’s pretty sure he knows the answer, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>The drive to the station is short, punctuated only by the occasional static-wrapped voice crackling through the scanner. The cop is anything but gentle when he yanks Freddy from the back seat, leading him through the all too familiar brick façade of his friendly neighborhood police precinct and over to the bench at the edge of the bullpen. It’s the worst seat in the house. Freddy hates the interrogation rooms, sure, but there’s something so much worse about sitting amongst a sea of pigs—he sneers defiantly at the false sense of superiority that oozes from every last one of them as they mill around, drinking their coffee and laughing and their shared stories.</p><p> </p><p>His wrists are bent awkwardly behind him but he pretends like it doesn’t bother him in the slightest, stretching his feet out in front of him like he owns the place and letting out an exaggerated sigh of boredom. A nearby cop glances over, met with a quirked eyebrow that Freddy hopes the bastard takes as a challenge.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Freddy waits.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, a cop approaches him. He can’t tell if it’s the same one who brought him in—they all start to blend together after a while, really—but he’s expecting the rough kick to his outstretched leg before it even lands. “Alright, get up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sheesh, finally. The service in this place, am I right?” Freddy calls out to no one in particular, grinning at the look the cop shoots him.</p><p> </p><p>That’s the thing—pigs can’t stand insolence. They fucking <em>thrive</em> on the spirits they break and Freddy ain’t about to give them the satisfaction of breaking his, he won’t be broken by a fucking cop. Some could argue that his stubborn, constant insubordination is precisely what paints such a large target on his head to begin with but Freddy would tell those people to fuck right off, it’s a matter of pride and he refuses to let himself get beat into submission by a bunch of assholes who think a badge and a gun make them the top-fucking-dog, drunk on power and un-fucking-touchable.</p><p> </p><p>Frechetti’s waiting for him across the table when the cop shoves him into the interrogation room, the most unwelcome sight of all. The shit cherry on top of this shit night. The door falls shut behind him with a heavy clunk and his stubborn confidence falters if only because he knows what lies ahead of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Long time no see, Newandyke.” Ferchetti begins with a flat tone and a flick of the cheap cigarette held between his fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, Frankie, but they sure as hell never met you.” Freddy throws right back as the guy rounds the table and shoves him toward the chair. “And here I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”</p><p> </p><p>Ferchetti returns to his own chair and pulls out a small brick wrapped in plastic—coke, if Freddy had to guess although he’s never touched the shit himself. He watches as it gets tossed to the stainless steel between them. “My guys tell me they picked you up with this in your possession, Newandyke. How much ya figure that is? I’d say it’s enough to prove intent to sell, at least, right?” The fucker is smiling as he speaks, finishing the statement by bringing the cigarette to his lips.</p><p> </p><p>Freddy grits his teeth. “Fuck you, asshole. That shit ain’t mine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whether it is or it ain’t don’t matter, bud, ‘cause it’s your word against ours.”<br/><br/></p><p>“What, can’t find any real dope slingers to harass?” Freddy spits. “Oh, wait, most of ‘em are probably on your payroll, huh?”</p><p><br/>Ferchetti shakes his head in some mixture of irritation and amusement before dropping his cigarette into the ashtray and briefly tamping it down. “Y’know, I don’t understand why you always insist on making this so difficult. There are ways of making this easier, you know, Fred? You got a smart mouth, I’m sure you’ve put it to good use before, right?” He moves around the table again, grabbing a fistful of Freddy’s hair and forcing him to look up.</p><p> </p><p>He glares back, unwavering despite the turning of his stomach, putting up as much resistance as he can. “I’m real sorry your wife don’t feel like suckin’ your cock no more but honestly, I don’t blame her. Bring your boy over here and see what fuckin’ happens, asshole.” He bares his teeth to get his message across, savoring the flare of anger in the cop’s face before the fist connects with his jaw. As far as hits to the face go, it ain’t the worst he’s experienced but it still hurts like a bitch and he forces out a laugh that tastes like blood. “Did I hit a nerve, Frankie?”</p><p> </p><p>Ferchetti’s response comes in the form of another fist that Freddy’s not fast enough to brace himself for. It’s the same old song and dance, really, but Freddy has yet to master the moves and the punches still hurt like they did the first goddamn time. Somehow, he ends up on the floor, Ferchetti’s boot bending his knee at an awkward angle hard enough to hurt, and he wants so desperately to fight back and draw blood but his arms are trapped underneath him. He’s helpless, tears blurring his vision, and he tries not to think about how easy it would be for Ferchetti to fucking kill him and probably get away with it, too.</p><p> </p><p>And then the door swings open with a slam that seems to echo off the walls and through Freddy’s throbbing skull and someone tears Ferchetti away, shoving him roughly against the wall with an arm held firmly against his collarbone. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? We got two murder suspects sittin’ out there with their thumbs up their asses waiting for questioning and you’re wastin’ time roughin’ up a kid somebody picked up with less than an ounce of weed on ‘im?!”</p><p> </p><p>“Guy’s got a history, Dimmick—” Ferchetti tries to argue, cut off as the arm at his throat presses tighter against his windpipe.</p><p> </p><p>“Shut the fuck up and save your fuckin’ excuses. Clean the goddamn blood off the floor and Haines can get his suspect in here and then get the fuck out—go home and let some actual fuckin’ work be done around here.” There’s a small shuffle—Ferchetti getting shoved into the hallway, a hand at Freddy’s shoulder. “Alright, kid, how ‘bout we get these cuffs off ya, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Freddy doesn’t say anything as the handcuffs fall away. He rubs at his wrists, feeling the telltale signs of bruising that has yet to appear around the strips of skin that have been worn raw, and he ignores the hand that extends to help him off the floor because he doesn’t want the fucking pity. He climbs to his feet with protesting shoulders and too much adrenaline that he doesn’t know what to do with, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and taking a long, shaky breath. Dimmick holds out a handkerchief. Freddy stares at it.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, I ain’t your fuckin’ enemy, kid.” The man says, so much softer than when he’d spoken to Ferchetti despite the bite to his words that suggest he’s still pissed at the situation he walked in on. “Come on. There’s a first aid kit in my office.”</p><p> </p><p>Freddy wants to bite back with something acidic, something about how he doesn’t fucking need any help from a fucking pig, they’re all the fucking same, but he keeps his mouth shut and follows Dimmick into the hallway because he doesn’t have it in him to pick any more fights tonight. He just wants to go home and lick his wounds in peace—a task that would be a hell of a lot more enjoyable, <em>by the way</em>, if his fucking weed hadn’t been confiscated—but at this point he’ll settle for just making it home in one piece.</p><p> </p><p>The door Dimmick opens is a rich stained wood with a frosted glass window that has CHIEF stamped out in the center, one of the few parts of the building that Freddy has never once set foot in, and the realization hits him slowly. He remembers an article on the front page of the newspaper a while back—the retirement of a local police chief. Freddy’s eyes had glazed over the moment he saw the half-page photo or a white haired cop, his hands quickly shuffling to the funnies, but now that he thinks about it the timeline might actually line up with the first time he’d become acquainted with this new guy and his talent for throwing Freddy off his game.</p><p> </p><p>Well, fuck.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s Newandyke, right?” Dimmick asks, reaching for the pack of cigarettes sitting among the clutter on his desk.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh…yeah.” Freddy’s a little surprised that the guy remembers, and even more surprised when a cigarette is held out to him, just like it had been last time. The gesture throws him off just like it did last time, too, but he still takes it with uncertain fingers, accepting the Zippo that gets passed to him.</p><p> </p><p>“You can take a seat, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Every rational part of Freddy’s brain is telling him to keep his guard up, cops ain’t this nice unless the have an ulterior motive, but there’s just something about this guy that makes it hard to keep his hackles raised. He lights his smoke and tosses the lighter back down onto the desk. His leg hurts—he’s got about a million little aches and pains and he’s tired and the chair is more comfortable than the one in the interrogation room, so he takes a seat and watches Dimmick move to flip open a metal first aid kit that’s mounted to the wall.</p><p> </p><p>“So, the head honcho himself, huh? Can’t say I was expectin’ that.” Freddy drawls. His wrists sting sharply and it makes his fingers twitch, his leg bouncing nervously as Dimmick pulls out a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton balls.</p><p> </p><p>Dimmick doesn’t respond to his comment as he rounds the desk. “You musta pissed in Ferchetti’s cornflakes something awful, kid. There a story there?”</p><p> </p><p>Freddy rolls his eyes and ignores the jolt of anxiety that shoots through him at not only the proximity but the line of questioning, grip tightening on the arm of the chair. “Guy doesn’t like me, what can I say?” He grits out, reaching forward to ash his cigarette. Of course there’s a fuckin’ story there but he’s not about to lay out all the shitty little details to be scrutinized.</p><p> </p><p>A thoughtful look crosses over Dimmick’s face as he steps forward with a prepped cotton ball, using an index finger to carefully tilt Freddy’s chin up so he can survey the damage. “I think it’s pretty clear the guy don’t like you, kid, but I’m havin’ a little trouble wrappin’ my head around <em>why</em>. Sure, you got an attitude but young punks with attitudes ain’t nothin’ new.”</p><p> </p><p>Freddy flinches when Dimmick dabs at his split lip, fingers twitching as his eyes involuntarily flick up to meet the cop’s searching gaze. It makes him feel too exposed, like he’s under a fuckin’ microscope, and he stubbornly refocuses on the far corner of the desk instead. “Yeah, well. I guess I’m just lucky.” He mutters.</p><p> </p><p>Dimmick doesn’t say anything more as he cleans the blood from Freddy’s face and although it seems like a blissful reprieve at first, the silence quickly proves to be much worse. It makes every second seem slow and drawn out, tortuous, makes this fucking office feels too goddamn small and too goddamn suffocating and suddenly that’s all Freddy can think about, the difficulty of breathing, and his chest feels tight and Dimmick must notice the change because the cotton ball is replaced with rough fingers and soft words.</p><p> </p><p>“Whoa, hey. You’re okay, kid.” Dimmick says as he tosses the cotton ball in the trash. “Deep breath in and out, alright? Breathe with me.” He reaches for one of Freddy’s hands, mindful of the raw skin of his wrist as he brings the palm to his chest. He mirrors the action on Freddy’s chest, then pulls a deep breath into his lungs.</p><p> </p><p>Freddy finds himself mimicking the steady inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale until, gradually, the weight in his chest lessens. “See? You’re okay.” Dimmick’s voice is reassuring in a way that has no right coming from a cop and Freddy nods in spite of himself.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m okay.” He repeats, choking out the words like he hadn’t been expecting them to spill from his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Dimmick offers a sincere smile and finally steps away; the distance is somehow both a relief and a disappointment at the same time and Freddy refuses to acknowledge the latter.</p><p> </p><p>“Good boy.” Dimmick snaps the bottle of antiseptic closed. “Listen, I uh, thought you might want this back.” He reaches into his pocket and tosses the confiscated baggie of weed onto the desk in front of Freddy, and Freddy narrows his eyes at it. “I’m gonna ask somethin’ in return, though.”</p><p> </p><p>And there it is, proof that this guy’s just like all the rest. Freddy feels himself tense up and lets out a humorless little laugh, mind already breezing through all the things that might be asked of him and ultimately resigning himself to walking out of here without his weed.</p><p> </p><p>“Lemme give you a ride home.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s the last thing Freddy ever would have expected and he frowns, eyebrows pinching together. “Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“’Cause you just got the shit knocked outta ya? ‘Cause I don’t trust Ferchetti not to finish what he started if he sees you out walkin’ on the sidewalk? Come on, kiddo, I ain’t got an ulterior motive here.”</p><p> </p><p>Freddy makes a face—that’s exactly what a person with an ulterior motive would say, actually—but Dimmick’s other two points are pretty strong. Freddy can’t argue either of them. And he really, truly doesn’t feel like walking all the way home with his aching knee and the sharp pangs of nothing where the adrenaline had been earlier, feeling more like exhaustion than anything else, and he figures his address is already in his file so what the fuck does it even matter if he accepts a ride home?</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, alright man.” He agrees quietly, resigned.</p><p> </p><p>Dimmick offers a small smile and moves to grab his coat off the rack in the corner. “Then let’s get you home, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>The drive is quiet and Freddy steadfastly refuses to take another cigarette, even when one is offered to him. He craves the rush of nicotine and the smoke in his lungs but he’s strong enough to ignore it. He needs to be strong enough to do <em>something</em> tonight, even if it’s just that. Dimmick attempts to speak to him once—he flips on the radio and turns up the volume in response and that’s the end of that.</p><p> </p><p>He bristles when Dimmick puts the car in park and turns to look at him, biting back the urge to say something hateful as a defense mechanism. He hates cops. <em>All</em> of them, because none of them have <em>ever</em> been different, and it doesn’t matter that Freddy kinda liked this guy last time because last time, he didn’t know this guy was the fuckin’ chief and if there’s anything worse than a pig, it’s the guy in charge of the pigs. So it doesn’t matter that Dimmick has been nothing but nice, Freddy’s not falling for it. Fuck this guy. Fuck him and his cigarettes and his warm smiles and his broad shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks for the ride. Or whatever.” Freddy mutters, reaching out for the door handle. He doesn’t look over, just stares at cars parked along the street in front of them and the shadows between them where the streetlights can’t reach.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome, kiddo.” Dimmick says as though Freddy’s words hadn’t been so tightly laced with snark. It would have pissed off any other cop but this guy seems unfazed. “I’ll be havin’ a talk with Ferchetti. That kinda shit better not happen again.”</p><p> </p><p>Freddy lets out a small humorless chuckle. Shit’s never as simple as that and Dimmick may be the chief, but he’s still new, still an outsider. Even a piece of shit like Freddy knows that the station hierarchy doesn’t work like that. “Good fuckin’ luck. I won’t be holdin’ my breath.” He moves finally, opening the door and sliding out and only looking at Dimmick’s face once he’s on his feet, about to shut the door completely.</p><p> </p><p>“Y’know, I don’t blame you for not trustin’ me, Freddy. I hope you have a good rest of your night.”</p><p> </p><p>The words and the accompanying smile make Freddy’s breath hitch and, you know <em>what</em>? Fuck that, too. Freddy shuts the door a little harder than he meant to and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets as he turns and heads up the steps to his building. He can feel Dimmick’s eyes on him the whole way and he just…doesn’t understand how a cop can <em>act</em> like that. Seriously, he’s not fucking falling for it, he doesn’t give a shit that he’s being rude, he just wants this night to be over and he wants to roll a joint and he wants to drink enough to forget about how many parts of his body <em>hurt</em> right now.</p><p> </p><p>And, yeah, later when he’s rolling said joint he feels a little bad about being an asshole because Dimmick is, at the very least, the first cop to ever give his drugs <em>back</em> and the joint wouldn’t even be possible without him, but a little bit of weed seems like a poor consolation prize for getting his ass kicked so the guilt is short-lived.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is none of the things I'm supposed to be working on but it's been on my computer for ages so I dusted it off, did some light editing, and I guess now I'm committing to another goddamn au?? Fuck. I'm sorry lmao.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>